Side of a Bullet
by D-chan
Summary: implied Goku x Sanzo :: mild language, violence :: Because Sanzo's aim had only worsened since the incident. [set in the Kamisama arc]


**: Side of a Bullet :**

_Gensomaden Saiyuki_

Rating: T

Pairings: implied Goku/Sanzo

Warnings: mild language, violence, implied shounen ai

Notes: Inspired by the song of the same title by Nickelback, though the stories aren't really all that similar.

And damn, has it been a while since I really managed to get anything written.

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

* * *

A cold gust of wind exploded out of nowhere, lashing long strands of hair at his eyes. The boy squinted and made an unsuccessful attempt to shove the annoyance back. Ever since his hair had been chopped off, he was quickly growing to find he disliked having it in between. Short, he knew, would benefit him as it did his keeper, but long had also worked, since he had been able to bind it back. But that was no longer possible.

The earth howled again, her breath trying to lift him clear off his feet and throw him miles into the distance. The boy stubbornly held his ground, stumbling dangerously until he found a tree to clutch. It wasn't much, as far as support went, but it was far more solid than him or any of the houses in town.

This wasn't fair. Sanzo had promised he would be only a minute.

Another silent explosion almost blinded him. He uttered a sound of frustration, forcing his hair back from his forehead—and almost taking off something fatally important. A flash of pain stabbed through his temples. He gasped and forgot about his hair, temporarily more concerned with making sure the coronet remained in place. Once satisfied it wasn't about to blow off, he gave up fighting over his sight and dug his fingers into the tree's skin. Rough bark scraped his fingertips, but he hardly felt it. Concern was beginning to outweigh his irritation with Sanzo.

For a moment, he thought he heard something cut through the air. One sound followed another, three sharp cracks in succession, and then silence. He paused, listening suspiciously, but even with his enhanced hearing, the most he could distinguish from the wind were brittle branches snapping in the wind, and leaves being torn from their stems before vanishing into the sky.

On the bright side, at least it wasn't raining, he thought. Normally he loved the rain, but the water would have only added to his sullen misery. He was cold, and intended to whine until Sanzo bought him a mug of hot chocolate back in Chang'an.

The wind was beginning to blister. His teeth chattered, but he refused to move. The boy clung to the tree even tighter, pressing his heels into the ground as though doing so would help keep him in place. Sloping roots almost seemed to press inward to keep him there. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with hoping Sanzo was okay, the boy would have found it somewhat disturbing.

Something caught his ear; different from the trees and wind, something warm and moving. He squinted, but the wind continued to defy his every effort to see. His own hair lashed at his eyes again, and the boy let out a mild curse.

Just as he did, a yell torn from the wind hit the back of his neck. The boy shuddered, jerking his head up in time to see someone leap from the woods behind him. A glint of silver immediately confirmed this was far from a friendly approach. The boy caught side of billowing white robes, and fear electrocuted him into a motionless rock.

_Sanzo—_

Two familiar sounds, double repeats of the distant cracks he had heard earlier. Even with his hair whipping around his face, Sanzo's expression was clear from the boy's vantage: cold, hard, and tinged with worry. They had come into town to buy cigarettes and lunch, before doing some minor investigating into a small assignment the Sanbutsushin had given their highest-ranking priest. All had seemed fine and well, but when minutes had passed and Sanzo hadn't stepped out of the town store, all had clearly gone downhill. The boy still had no clear idea of what was going on, but it was obvious whoever Sanzo had encountered held something against him. The sounds he had caught earlier were more than likely gunshots from the Smith & Wesson.

The figure that had attacked Sanzo fell with the second shot. The wind enhanced the resulting effects, making it seem as though the blood were erupting from the person's torso. The boy was close enough to receive a splatter across his cheek.

The body thudded to the earthy ground, spraying dirt into the air. Several yards away, Sanzo cocked his gun and surveyed their surroundings. He didn't appear to see his charge half-hidden behind the large tree—though if he was breathing as hard as it looked, and that truly was some sort of concern stitched to his face, it was understandable. Something bad was going on, and he probably needed help.

The boy scrambled out from behind the tree, struggling against the wind to join his master. Sanzo's head snapped up sharply, and before the man's gaze even fixated on his charge, an ear-splitting _bang!_ tore through the wind. Purposefully misfired, so that in the raging rainless storm, the bullet would hit its mark.

The boy didn't understand why he stumbled backward, or what Sanzo had shot at, or why the man's eyes widened when his eyes focused. When he hit the ground, the boy yelped as his shoulder stung, and reflexively reached up to clutch it.

Blinding pain burst in sparks of dazzled agony. Fire swept from his shoulder and up his neck, down his arm, until his skin felt like it was repeatedly being jabbed with thousands of vicious needles. The boy gasped and tore his hand away, blindly looking around for Sanzo, to see if he was okay, but then Sanzo was there, beside him, cursing violently and looking even worse than worried. And the boy didn't know what, to Sanzo, could be worse than that.

When at last he looked down, the sight of his own blood smeared across and dripping from his hand was nauseating. And he realized why his shoulder hurt so much, and why he had fallen.

In the four years of living with Sanzo, not once had Son Goku ever been shot.

Somehow, he knew he should have expected it sooner or later.

---

He never failed to keep an audience. For most Sanzo priests, this was considered a gift. To Priest Toua Genjo Sanzo the 31st, it was the blackest of all curses.

He continued his target practice even after Gojyo left. All the beer cans had been shot at least twice at this point and several were too hopelessly dented to have any luck of propping up for more than two seconds. In other words, all but useless targets. Had they been humans, even youkai, they would have been long dead.

This time, Kami-sama would be even lower than the warped tin. As though to enforce this concept in his mind, Sanzo fired at the most battered can. It snapped against the ground and bounced off, coming to rest at the bare feet of a young man.

Golden eyes looked down at the can, and then finally rose to meet Sanzo's. The boy – if he could still be called that – wore an unusually contemplative expression. He nudged a can with his bare toe, seeming to ignore the dangers of cutting himself. Sanzo bit his tongue to keep from reminding him.

"Y'know," Goku said. "You're getting worse."

Sanzo rolled his eyes, turning his attention to his weapon. They would be heading out to face Kami-sama a second time in the morning, and it would be most beneficial for him to clean the Smith & Wesson tonight.

"Your aim, I mean. It's off."

Sanzo froze.

Grass rustled behind him. Somehow, the sound seemed enhanced; sharpened. Sanzo could almost smell the stinging scent of green blades crushed and creased beneath bare feet, could almost _feel_ the fine edges of grass against the sensitive flesh beneath his toes. He tried to shake himself from his stupor, but could only move so much as to empty the shell casings and reload. Slowly. His eyes meandered from his weapon, trailing over the remains of Gojyo's cigarette—the one he had shot in half as the man had let it fall to the ground.

When he spoke, at least, his tone was biting, not slow at all. "And you would know."

From the sounds behind him, he deduced Goku was making his way closer. Sanzo deliberately kept his back turned; he was not about to answer any stupid questions his charge may have had.

He lashed out when Goku touched his arm, but the young man sidestepped the reflexive attack with ease. Sanzo opened his mouth to tell the boy off, but hesitated at Goku's expression. Whereas normally the boy would be indignant, demanding to know what the hell Sanzo's problem was, why had he tried to strike out like that, now Goku only smiled.

"Only a year ago," Goku said, sounding strangely happy. "And your aim sucks more than it did then."

"What the hell are you—" Something small and slightly warm was pressed into his palm. Goku made sure to close Sanzo's fingers around it, and then released his hand before it occurred to Sanzo he should smack his charge for giving him something possibly stupid beyond all reason. Before he could look down, however, Goku spoke.

"You haven't shot me since I was a kid." The boy looked pleased with himself, even _smug_. It was all Sanzo could do not to punch him a good one upside the head. "You've shot _at_ me all this time, but you always missed."

Sanzo stared.

Goku grinned broadly. "Hakkai's making dinner." And, just like that, he turned and was off, jogging back toward the inn; not appearing to be in a real hurry, just moving a little faster to get his blood pumping. And, knowing Goku, that wasn't too unlikely—and Sanzo didn't _want_ to think his charge had other reasons for practically running away.

The man stared after him a moment longer, and then finally tore his eyes away. Ridiculous, he knew. Goku was prone to say some of the most moronic things. Just because he had _looked_ so serious didn't mean he really was.

Even so, the insignificant weight in Sanzo's palm didn't feel as useless as it should have. Its size was hardly impressive, and the shape even felt like trash. Sanzo uncurled his fingers until he could get a good look of what was nestled in his palm, dull and unimpressive—but upon closer inspection, far more important than he'd originally believed.

The bullet was damaged, as it had already been shot once. But it had been forced awkwardly back into a casing – impossible for it to be the original – and an outside hand obviously had some help in smoothing it out a bit to smoothen its appearance. Over time, possibly weeks, maybe even months, a far less professional hand had worked fervently on etching characters into the casing.

Sanzo allowed his gaze to wander over each line, slowly comprehending the deeper meaning of the simple word. Gradually, Goku's words sunk in. The bullet was a useless gift, in all aspects. The bullet was damaged, and the casing wouldn't even fit in the chambers.

Sanzo discreetly pocketed it and began collecting the leftover targets. Some, at least, could still be used.


End file.
